


The Bell That Changed Their Lives (And Let Them Breathe)

by siobhrag



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Getting Together, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, POV First Person, POV Harry Potter, POV Severus Snape, Severus Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25880068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siobhrag/pseuds/siobhrag
Summary: Two people thinking the same thoughts, having the same fears, and hoping for the same thing to happen. (Or why Harry and Snape really returned to Hogwarts for the Eighth Year).
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 4
Kudos: 93





	The Bell That Changed Their Lives (And Let Them Breathe)

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed.  
> No beetles were harmed in the process of writing. :)

_“During Class” (Harry)_

I can’t breathe.

I could have said it was because of the potions fumes filling the classroom, but that would be a lie.

It’s because of Snape - Severus. I’ve never called him by his name, never dared to. It would be inappropriate and audacious. His name seems harsh, but you can roll it on your tongue as if it’s a piece of chocolate.

His presence is overpowering, overwhelming. He’s at the front of the classroom, peering in some Ravenclaw’s cauldron, but I can feel him even from my place at the back of the classroom.

I can sense his power, his magic, his presence. They are dark, and viscous, and soft at the same time. I’m drowning in them, yet I absorb them with pleasure. They are strangling and making me forget how to breathe. I don’t need air. I need him.

I don’t particularly care what I’m doing to my potion; it will explode anyway, eventually. And then Snape will look at me, not quite indifferently. There will be something in his eyes, something dark, and burning, and daring; and tempting.

He will try to be indifferent, but I’ll know that it’s not true. I will accept that dare in his eyes, this time. Because I need to do something, anything to alleviate this suffocation, to verify that what I suspect I see in his face and his eyes is true.

I want the truth to be out. I want to be enveloped in his presence, and his magic, and his arms without any restraints. I want it today, now. 

Because he’s mine. Because I want him to be mine. He’s the only reason I’ve come back to Hogwarts for this charade of the eight year. He, and his memories, and his blood, and the weight of his seemingly dying body in my arms, and the way he said ‘look at me’.

Everyone’s been telling me how good and brave and loyal it was of him to love my mother for so long, but I know that those almost last words of his were for me and for me only.

I need to know it now, today, immediately, or I’ll go mad.

He’s always considered me daring and foolhardy. Should I be the one to make the first move?

I keep staring at him, keep following his every move and gesture. I can barely hear what he’s saying, I’m too far away, sitting at the very last row in the classroom, but I know that his voice is changed. It has lost its silkiness and velvetiness. It’s diamonds scratching the glass now. Every time I hear his new voice, my blood boils; not from revulsion or anger, but from something I’m afraid to admit even to myself. 

I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I’m inexperienced and uncouth, but I need him. I have nothing to offer him, except for my youth and inexperience. I can just hope he will accept my meagre offerings.

I know that he knows that I’m watching him. He’s trying to ignore me, and it’s so obvious for someone who used to be a spy.  
With a loud belch my potion emits a small cloud of foul smelling smoke and hardens into a rock instantaneously. Well, it didn’t explode but the result is the same – he will come to me.

He turns to look at me and my poor cauldron, and winces. He’s now approaching my table, waving his hand in the air and dissolving the stench with a wandless wordless spell. He’s much more open about his astonishing powers right now; being freed from two conniving madmen will do that to a wizard.

He empties my cauldron with a snap of his fingers and looks at me intently. I want him to say something, anything, even belittle me in front of the whole class, but I know he won’t do that. He’ll stay silent, with only his eyes trying to tell me the world. 

He turns his back on me and goes away. As he does so, he slides two fingers of his left hand over the edge of my desk. No one notices this weird motion but me. My hand is two inches away from the edge of the desk. My fingers twitch but I keep my hand in place.

I want to touch him. But now is neither time nor place to do that. He won’t appreciate it now, and I don’t want to make a scene. I hope he appreciates me self-control. 

I watch him go to his desk and lean on it. He doesn’t need to say anything, his presence is enough to ensure that any student will behave properly.

I need to do something, and I need to do it today.

I look up to the watch hanging high on the wall above his desk. Twenty minutes till the end of the class. It’s the last class of the day, and the week.

I will wait.

I spend the rest of the class trying to assemble back the crashed beetle and feeling his eyes on me. 

I’m waiting for the bell that will announce the irreversible change in my life.

~*~*~*~

_“During Class” (Severus)_

I can’t breathe.

I could have said it was because of my mangled throat and the fumes of the badly brewed potions that are filling my classroom, but that would be a lie.

It’s because of Potter – Harry. I’ve never called him by his name, never dared to. It would be inappropriate and too familiar. His name seems plain, but you can stretch it on your tongue like treacle.

His presence is overpowering, overwhelming. He’s at the back of a classroom, as usually, obviously not paying any attention to his assignment, but I can feel him even from where I stand at the front of the classroom.

I can sense his power, his magic, his presence. They are blindingly bright, and crackling and soft and the same time. I’m being blinded by them, yet I absorb them with pleasure. I don’t seem to remember to breathe when I’m surrounded by Potter’s presence; I need neither air nor light. I need him.

I’m not entirely sure of what I tell the Ravenclaw student about his potion. I just hope that years of teaching and brewing will take care to provide the right words. Even without looking at Potter and his potion I know that it will explode eventually and I will have to go to him. 

And I will have to look at him, even if for a second. I will aim for indifference, but I will fail. And he will see everything in my eyes, everything that I’m trying, or more like pretending, to hide.

I want and don’t want him to see the truth. But I hope he will one day; maybe even today – why not? If he does, my drowning will finally end, and I will only bask in his extraordinary presence.

I need him. I want him to be mine. He’s the only reason I’ve come back to teach at Hogwarts. He, and the way he accepted my memories, the way he tried to stop my blood (his hands were so warm and careful), the way he held my weakening body, and the way he looked at me when I asked him to.

Everyone’s been telling me how good and brave and loyal it was of me to love his mother for so long, but they are fools – everything that’s happened in the Shack was about Harry and Harry only. 

I hope he sees the truth soon, or I’ll go mad.

I can’t be the one making the first move, for what if I’m mistaken?

I know that he’s watching me, following my every move. I keep talking to the Ravenclaw student, and I see him wince and shudder. Yes, my voice has changed. I can no longer bewitch or mesmerise anyone with it. It’s like nails scratching the glass now. I try to speak as less as possible, for I want to rage at hearing my own voice.

It was the only beautiful feature I had, and even that has been taken away from me. All I have now is my ugliness and experience; that’s everything I can offer anyone; offer him, if he’s willing to take it. 

I know that he knows that I know that he’s watching me. I’m trying to ignore him, but I’m not doing a good job of it. I’m losing everything I’ve know about being a spy.

With a loud belch his potion exhales a small cloud of sulphur smelling smoke; I can suspect it’s turned into a rock immediately after that. Well, his potion didn’t explode, but the result it the same – I need to go to him.

I turn to look at him and wince at the stench. I’m approaching his place, waiving my hand in the air and dissolving the stench with a wandless, wordless spell. I don’t hide my magic anymore, and to hell with anyone who might object. I’ve had enough madmen telling me what to do.

I empty his cauldron with a snap of my fingers and look at him intently. I don’t say a word, I don’t think I need. I certainly don’t need to reprimand him for failing to make yet another potion. I hope he can see everything in my eyes. 

Eventually, I turn my back on him and am ready to go back to my desk. But before I do so, I’m overpowered by an urge to touch him. I can’t do that now and here, in the middle of the class, in front of all the students. I settle on the most available, yet stupid, substitution – touching something he’s touched.

I slide my fingers over the edge of his desk. He’s hand is so close, but it’s so far away. I notice his fingers twitch, but he doesn’t move his hand. Smart boy, for once.

I go to my desk and lean my hip on it. My presence and scowling stare are enough to keep even the eight year students behaving.  
I notice him looking at the watch above my desk. I know the class will last for another twenty minutes. I see the determination settling on his face, and I know that the day has come.

He’s waiting. I’m waiting, too.

Meanwhile, he’s harassing the crashed beetle which has already suffered greatly by trying to assemble it back. I hope he won’t try to revive it.

He’s waiting, and I’m waiting with him for the bell that will announce the irreversible change in my life.

~*~*~*~

_“Five Minutes after Class” (Still Severus)_

The bell sounds, announcing the end of the class; the day; and the week. All through my teaching years this has been my favourite moment of the week.

I watch impassively as students put their potion samples on my desk, or don’t put anything there, and walk by me with their heads lowered. I don’t really care about their failures – they knew what they were getting into when they were signing up for the Advanced Potions.

Potter’s still sitting at his desk, trying to attach half of the gossamer wing to the beetle’s back. Even from where I’m standing I can see that he’s pushing it into the wrong spot.

Several minutes pass until the last student is out of the classroom. They are always eager to leave this place as quickly as possible. I’ve only ever seen one student willing to stay behind. It’s Potter.

I send the potions samples flying to their waiting place on the shelf and sit at my desk. I’m not sure whether I should say something to Potter or not, but eventually I decide against it. I know that he knows that I’m pretending to ignore him. We are playing a careful game in which one wrong move or a misplaced word can ruin everything.

I take some parchment from the pile on my table. It’s an abysmally written seventh-year essay on moonstone, and I’ve already checked it. Still, I keep my eyes down, pretending to read it.

A chair scrapes the floor. I freeze. Several soft steps, and he’s standing right in front of my desk, almost hovering over me. I wait a second, two, and look up at him. His wand is out and he’s levitating the poor beetle. He’s almost got it right, except for the wrong legs attached to the wrong places, and wings being put together inside out; the gossamer part should be under the steel-gray one.

I look at him expectantly. He looks back, without saying a word. I can’t take it anymore. Someone needs to break this unsettling silence. 

“You won’t make a good entomologist, Mr. Potter.”

He looks at his Frankenstein creation and cracks a smile. “Yeah. It’s all wrong, and it’s missing a leg.”

Indeed, it is. Why are we discussing insects, anyway?

“What do you want, Mr. Potter? You know I can’t award you points for your insect restoration attempts.” 

“You know what, Professor.”

Indeed, I do. But I’m still not completely sure if it’s what he really wants, if at all. I need to be absolutely sure before I throw off all the pretence and my life off the cliff and admit my madness, my need of him.

“No, I don’t, M. Potter. Care to enlighten me?”

He frowns in confusion for a moment. Come on, boy, you’re smarter than this; you know why I’m doing what I’m doing. I steeple my fingers under my chin and look at him. After a moment realisation hits him and he smiles; his smile is small and shy, timid and sweet. I notice that the hand holding his wand is trembling slightly. He’s afraid, afraid that he misread, misunderstood everything. He hasn’t, really.

He’s clumsy and disorganised, he’s sharp and heady. And he’s brave, a little lion ready to rush into any danger. When can I call you mine?

He leans a bit forward and lowers his hand on my desk, inches from my fingers.

“You.”

I look straight into his eyes, discarding all the caution and pretence. I hope he can see everything in my eyes, for I’m unable to utter a single word right now. He can, my little lion. He drops his wand and the beetle and smiles openly in relief.

You are mine now, Harry.

~*~*~*~

_“Five Minutes after Class” (Now Harry)_

The bell sounds, announcing the end of the class; the day; and the week. I’ve always liked Fridays evenings best.

I watch as my fellow students walk past his table – some turning in their bottled concoctions, some giving him nothing and trying to walk by as quickly as possible, with their heads lowered. I, obviously, will turn in nothing; that’s not why I’ve signed up for this class.

I’m still at my desk, waiting for everyone to leave. The beetle I’m trying to assemble back is all wrong – the legs are missing and the wings won’t stay where I place them. But I need to keep my hands and mind occupied, or I’ll go mad.

Even though everyone’s trying to leave this place as quickly as possible, it’s still several minutes until the last student is out of the classroom. I’ll bet anything that he’s never had anyone stay after class, for anything, not even Malfoy. I’m the only one; I’d stay here forever, with him.

I glance up briefly and see him send the sample potions away. He sits at his table, and the look on his face is a bit lost, as if he’s unsure what to do next. I understand him and his hesitation. He knows that I know that he’s pretending to ignore me. But our game is too delicate and subtle; it can be ruined within moments with one incautious word.

He takes some parchment from the pile on his table. He looks confused, as if he’s already seen it, but still he pretends to read it. We’ve stretched the time long enough. Now’s time to act.

My chair scrapes the floor with a nasty screeching sound when I stand up. I see him freeze, as I’m looking directly at him now. Several steps, and I’m standing in front of his desk, almost hovering over him. He waits a few seconds, and looks up at me. The first thing he sees is my wand with a mangled beetle on its working end. He examines my creation critically, and I snort inwardly. Yes, I know it’s all wrong.

He looks at me expectantly. I look back, but I can’t say a word. All the things I’ve wanted to tell him evaporated from my head. He understands my silence differently, and breaks it. I’m grateful to him for that.

“You won’t make a good entomologist, Mr. Potter.”

I look at my clumsy creation and grin. “Yeah. It’s all wrong, and it’s missing a leg.”

It’s not the most important topic to be discussed right now, but it helps me, us, get on to track and turn the conversation to what we both (I hope) want to know the most right now. 

“What do you want, Mr. Potter? You know I can’t award you points for your insect restoration attempts.” 

I know he can’t, and I don’t want him to.

“You know what, Professor.”

Yes, he does. But I can see that he’s still not completely sure about what’s going on here, between us. I need to show him, tell him, that it’s alright, that I want that too, whatever this is; that I want him.

“No, I don’t, M. Potter. Care to enlighten me?”

I frown in confusion for a moment. He’s not making it easier. He’s looking at me intently, expecting _me_ do to something, but what? Then it hits me, this realisation that he wants to be absolutely sure that neither of us misread, misunderstood, each other. And for I second I’m afraid that I’ve indeed done that. But deep down I know that I haven’t. I smile at him. I notice that my wand trembles in my hand and the creepy beetle trembles with it. We are so different, but we’ll fit perfectly together. 

He’s subtle and elegant, he’s fearless and steadfast. And he’s fervent, like a volcano ready to erupt at any moment; like a snake ready to strike. Can I call him mine now?

I lean a bit forward and lower my hand on his desk, inches from his fingers.

“You.”

He looks straight into my eyes, finally discarding all the caution and pretence. I look back, and even without words I can see everything in his eyes. My wand falls to the floor, together with the beetle. I smile in relief.

You are mine now, Severus.


End file.
